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Some time earlier in the winter season a package had been delivered upon the doorstep of a clay mason. Georgio Di Fusco, an immigrant from Ecara who now owns his very own shop in Mishkan, far from home. It was that "far from home" bit that made it all the more strange to find anything outside of work deliveries simply left as a gift. Wrapped in nothing but brown paper and a creame colored ribbon was a sprig of holly, and a note reading only "A tiny mystery for your season."

He was not a man for mysteries. They didn't intrigue him, nor did they offer any excitement. From experience, a mystery was often a bad thing best left to its own devices. And that is what it was. The holly was placed somewhere in an attempt to be festive for the holiday, and otherwise left forgotten. That is, until the holly left rather suddenly, only to be replaced with the little Earl. No name, and no earthly origin if Georgio was asked, and no sense of manners when it came to taking up roost in another's home. He was no bigger than a woman's palm, and barely heavy enough to be noticed. In fact, the Earl, as he liked to be called, fit perfectly into a teacup. And that was where he was to be found on strange morning in late winter.

"These aren't yours to sit in." Gio, as many called him, frowned down at the little pale creature. He'd originally sat down at the table that morning to clean the dust off his mother's unused tea sets. A bitter chill had set in for, hopefully, the last time that winter. It was a day he would do menial tasks, dusting, folding clothes into drawers instead of simply set close enough, busy work. But instead he'd sat down at his dining table only to find a dozing Earl in one of the teacups. He wore all creame, like buttermilk, what skin he had, if it even was skin, was stark white.

"Why do you 'ave so many cups?"

"Pardon?" He dragged a chair over to sit at the table. It was an equally unused dinning table. His dining room was tiny, and more of a nook than a room, so he rarely used it. The table only ever held three at best. Good for afternoon coffee, poor for guests. Living alone allowed him the luxury of eating where he pleased. At the island in his small kitchen usually. His counters were sparse and barely enough space to prepare much of anything, so he'd built the island for storage and space to cook on the rare occasion.

"Why do you 'ave so many cups?" the little creature repeated, sitting upright as if Gio hadn't heard him the first time. The motion caused his cup to wobble but he didn't miss a beat. He was like a tiny sailor in a tiny boat, riding out the waves of wooden table top, bravely crossing his dining room for unknown lands. Perhaps the guest bedroom.

The thought made Gio smile despite himself. "Why do you ask?"

Earl settled into his teacup, little legs bent under himself, tails of his tiny coat hanging over the lip. Where did such a creature get such tiny clothes anyway? Perhaps his kind were simply born into them. It would explain how he had acquired such tiny pants. "You 'ave so many. But you rarely use more 'an three on a good week." His wide black eyes were nearly impossible to read, but the open smile wasn't. Gio didn't know if he should have been more upset that the little creature had been around long enough to notice, or that he actually watched to count up an average.

"They are my mother's."

"Will she be visitin' soon?"

"That is unlikely. She passed." his lips curled downward.

"So she won't be?" It was hard not to find the little Earl cute in his naivete.

"Not in this lifetime little pale one." He took an old cloth from his pocket and started with one of his mother's teapots. An old floral one with pink roses. If all went right they would be shining again in their display cases behind the shop counter. They weren't to be sold, but they gave customers a nice bit to look at and entice them into buying something on the shelves. His hands paused as the little Earl wiggled around in his cup, apparently trying to get out, only resulting in the whole thing tipping over, the tiny creature spilling out onto the table top. "Problems?"

A little huff escaped it as Earl eventually got to his feet. "Why ain't you polishin' the blue one?"

"Pardon? Which blue one are you talking about?" Blue had been a popular color as of late. A few orders were still sitting around, waiting to be packed.

A little hand pointed to his workshop. "The blue one in there, on the 'igh shelf. I can't reach her, but I sit on the shelf underneath 'er for comp'ny. You should pay her more attention."

A frown crossed his face. What was the little one talking about now? "Her?" He rotated the teapot in his hands, The paint was starting to thin. Perhaps he'd have to repaint it before the new year was out.

"Yeah, 'er." Earl rolled his cup around the table, working up enough leverage to push it upright. He didn't crawl back into the vessel though, instead opting to wander between the teapots that had been lined up. "You consider y'rself lucky. Two o' us in one 'ouse."

Gio frowned, eyes narrowing. It was becoming the common expression used while speaking to the little Earl. "I'm not following amico." He leaned against his palm, setting down the teapot in his other hand. Since his arrival he'd always attempted to humor Earl, lest he wake up covered in boils with his house on fire. At this rate he was never going to finish the chores he'd set out for himeslf.

"Do you remember 'ow I got 'ere?" Gio moved a teapot to find the hiding Earl.

"I assumed I'd been cursed. Perhaps I angered a gypsy." Tiny little hands swung at the back of his hand. Earl was cold to the touch. "Spiacente, spiacente. Please, continue."

A huff "You dolt. You didn't even notice when I arrived. What 'appened to your 'olly?"

Gio looked up to where it had been hanging near the kitchen. But there was simply the empty hook it had been sitting on. A shrug, "It was lost, around the time-"

"Around the time I started roamin' your 'alls?" Gio nodded, brows quirking in a vague look of understanding. He was starting to get where the little one was going with their conversation.

He held up a hand to paused Earl's speaking. Surprisingly it worked, the little creature sitting down on the table top. "Wait a moment, are you trying to tell me that you came from a sprig of holly. And that now my mother's old teapot is going to do the same?"

"Of course." Earl reached out to pat at Gio's forearms as his face fell into his hands. Another tiny creature scurrying around his home? What had he ever actually done to anyone to deserve that? He wasn't one to take care of anything living. The teapot being his own made him caretaker by default of whatever happened to jump out of it one day. His stomach was already churning.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx▌ o1 -- Thread Tracker
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx▌ o2 -- Congratulations, you're a Keeper
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx▌ o3 -- A Mysterious Letter Has Arrived

The trip home to his father hadn't been an easy one, but he still had the odd feeling that it was for the best that he'd come. He was thankful for the time with his father, and the whole ridiculousness of his journey. Not so much for the abundance of house mates he'd seemed to have unwillingly collected though. First the Earl had found his way into his home back in Mishkan, then the Baron. Now he was caretaker to a little Duke and Duchess as well. Then there was the ever curious teapot, smelling ever so slightly of death. Almost always nearby these days, like it was slowly evolving into a tumor instead of the probably cursed piece of kitchenware that it was. Earl was convinced it would turn out like one of his kind, but that thought only sent Georgio into a tailspin of panicked nerves.

The last few days leading to the precarious trip back to his shop in Briham had been interesting to say the least. The little Quartette were dead set perpetually bothering his father, whom seemed only to take notice of them when it suited him, as if the very notion of a parent was foreign and intriguing. There was also the increasingly strange mail that kept finding its way to his doorstep. Well, the doorstep of his father. The mail system was never more reliable than when it concerned things that meant him change or emotional harm. It figured.

It was a mild day when the letter had arrived. His morning had been spent reorganizing and taking stock of the store front before he began preparations for his trip. Best to leave his father with excess stock than short when he left. No sense in being rude to the man who’d taught him his craft by not replacing what he’d used. "Georgio, they're on the counter." Matteo Di Fusco walked with a cane and his accent was still thick from a life in Ecara. A rather short man, he was not the source of Georgio's excess height, instead he was the source of his silvering hair and baritone. For much of the morning he'd been clicking around with his cane, arranging things the way he liked in his son's long striding wake.

"Yes papa," he wasn't really listening, trying to keep count of little ceramic teaspoons. He’d have to add them to his usual store-front stock. You always sold a bundle with a full tea set, and they were fun to make, all their little ends adorned with tiny sculpture.

"Georgio. The little one, he is moving my cups."

"Yes papa." Georgio didn't take much notice as he scooped the Duke up into his apron front pocket, the creamy little creature with its own equally petite spoon giving little protests. His tiny royal of the arts, always found hiding in the most intricate of teapots and cups. Back to counting and making little checks and hard to read numerals on the parchment in hand.

"The little one, she is stuck up on the shelf again."

"Get her down Papa. Use a cup."

"No."

A heavy sigh breathes out from behind his teeth, shoulders arching with the motion. "Yes papa." Duchess was small and rarely went anywhere without the Baron, lest she get herself stuck. He had to put his work down, striding over to offer an open palm to the little gold creature. Both she and the Duke found seats in his apron pocket, the easiest place to keep the little twins out of trouble. Identical if not for the colors of their little clothing.

"Georgio."

"Padre!" He was never going to finish at this rate.

"You have mail." A wry grin was tugging at his father's lips. Oh he knew exactly what he was doing.

"Oh. Grazi." He tried to smile but it was more embarrassment than proper gratitude tugging at the corners of his lips. With the letter in hand and the rest of the troupe scooped up into the crook of his elbow he made his way into the workshop. The tale-tell sound of his father's cane clicking about behind him, finishing the work how he liked. He only hoped he was as active as his father when he was his age.

"Your papa is nice."

A snort. Of course he was. The Duchess smiled and demurred as he thanked her, sinking herself deeper into his pocket, only the top of her little green ribbon adorned cap peeking out. "Alright little ones, down you go, behave." All four were deposited onto the table he'd set for himself in his father's workshop, Baron huffing at the comment. Such a small little creature, but full of so much anger. It was Earl who herding his comrades into a conference next to the teapot as the mason went about opening his mail. "Might be important," the little Earl supplied, smiling as he always did before the little ones returned to their hushed conversations.

He was very cautious of letters these days, even more so of anything the Earl happened to like. But it was rude to ignore such nice stationary, so he took up a perch on his stool, heals resting on the lowest rung. It should have set off warning bells for the paper to be so fine and hefty.



When had he become a man known for pottery? Best not to kick a complement in the teeth. If the Scientists needed such curiously specific containers, than he would have to draw up some plans for them. Perhaps make a few dummy tests and carve up a mold. His hands were already picking up scrap pieces of parchment, his quill in hand to write up lists and scribble out designs. A good glaze would keep the insides clean and waterproof. But it was expensive, finding the right glass, crushing it into a powder and then turning it to paint. An hour of plans and rough schematics later and he was startled back into reality with tiny pats to his stationary wrist. "Hm?"

Earl required his attention. Or rather, they all did, the others staring up at him as if waiting for an answer to a question that hadn't even been asked. "Georgio. When are we going home?" Ah, there it was. They'd been more active in the past week than the entire time he'd had any of them, Earl included. They'd been getting antsy. Or maybe just The Earl was, inspiring the others in stress.

"Homesick little Earl?" as big of a pain as the little creatures could be, he'd unwillingly grown fond of them. Their hopeful little faces, Baron aside, always had a habit of worming their way into his chest. The Baron simply looked displeased a majority of the time, but even his perpetual frown was growing on him like a cancer.

He didn't answer, but his little hat fell over his wide black eyes as he nodded, tiny hands cold on the knobby bone of his wrist.

"Soon. Prometto. We'll all go home soon. Padre just needs a bit of help getting the shop back in order."

"How long will that take?" The Duke now, holding his little twin's hand carefully.

A smile tugged at the mason's lips. He set his quill down, careful not to let the tip rest over anything important on his parchment, before turning fully to the troupe on his worktable. "It depends on how long you little ones can behave. The more you stay out of the way, the easier it will be for me to finish inventory and cleaning up the store front." Silence over the four, all sharing tiny looks before turning their vast eyes up to him. "Do we have a deal then? All shall be quiet and we will leave as soon as we are able?"

Vigorous nods.

"A deal is made then," he held out his palm the four tapped each at a fingertip in place of shaking.


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The next two days were the quietest, most peaceful days his life had known since acquiring his mother's old teapot. Not a pitter patter of tiny feet. Not a single peep from his quartet. He hadn't actually seen them until the third evening rolled around and he was packing, having made travel arrangements for morning. And even then it was just the Earl peeking out of the tainted teapot, the move into a padded bag having jostled him out of a nap. His compatriots soon followed from their hiding spaces, all accounted for, tucked deep into the teapot's bag in hiding when morning came. Such good little children they were when there was a prize at the end of the tunnel. He would have to remember that the next time the Earl inspired the lot into chaos. Breakfast was had with his father, farewells were exchanged, a few too many for his father's tastes.

"I will be fine on my own Georgio. Go before your carriage leaves without you." His father was never one to be doted over or coddled, regardless of his age.

"Right, right." One last brisk farewell and he was into his carriage.

And so he went, pondering all the way. He still had containers to make along with opening the shop back up. There were probably orders from old clients backed up for weeks, but he would have to wait to open those floodgates. Smaller work came first. Scientist work came first. He would have normally watched the scenery on the trip, but instead all he could see on the curve of the horizon was the curve of new pottery. His hands itched to sculpt, test new shapes, different heats of his kiln. It had been so long since he'd had a good challenge.

There was a certain finesse to orders for painted teapots and matching china sets. But it was the unusual ones, the ones that asked for something new, that got his mind churning and working over models and sketches behind his eyes. Had he not simply collapsed into his bed upon arriving home he would have fallen face first into fresh clay, or perhaps died in his kiln. Come morning the work really started. Backed up orders to fill, tests and molds to make, new glazes and clays to buy.

It was a week later and his workshop was in full swing, papers with designs and measurements littering the worktables, the mason himself very nearly elbow deep in fresh clay. His shirt sleeves were rolled up past the elbow, heat from the kiln making the workshop hot and sticky, the open door doing little for it. Strands of hair stuck to the back of his neck and forehead, white shirt clinging to his damp skin. None if it seemed to break his concentration, if anything he was being more productive than he’d been in a year. Back orders from good customers getting churned out like a factory while he’d gone through test after test. Only the occasional little break to stand outside in fresh air to cool off and have a glass of water had stopped his workflow.

Several already made containers were lining his drying racks, all in different shapes, some strange, some simple, but the majority were shaped like the flasks one would find in a scientist's lab, rounded with flat bottoms and narrow necks. Clay would always be cheaper than glass, more durable as well if his years of dropping cups and china had taught him anything. It was the waterproofing that was sticking him. Glazes could get expensive and often took more time than strictly necessary to get an even coating dried properly on the inside of a small container before firing. And that was praying that it didn’t drip while in the kiln. Another cracked open container showed a pool of glaze in the bottom, the coating in the neck so thin it would have rubbed off from simple use in a few months. “Why do you keep breakin’ ‘em?”

Earl was climbing up onto his work table, scaling the leg of it via a piece of twine looped around a nail, just the right kind of hook for someone so small.

“To see the insides. I can’t get the glaze even when it cooks. My kiln doesn’t have the racks to cook them upside down so most of the glaze falls to the bottom.”

“I don’t know what glaze is, but why not use somethin’ else?” He scrambled his little body up onto the wood surface, rolling away from a broken bit of pottery before dusting himself off. “It’d at least save on clay. You scare the little ones with the smashin’.”

“You are all little, Earl.”

“The littler ones. Duke and Duchess.” Earl almost seemed offended at being deemed little, tiny hands puffing out his little jacket, hat sitting jauntily to one side.

“What do you suggest I use?”

“I’m not the one who makes teapots for a livin’. Does your da’ use anythin’ else?”

Gio leaned back slightly on the stool, frowning at the thought, the heat, everything about how unproductive his day had been when compared to the rest of the week. What did his father use? Why hadn’t he thought of that damn question. “Flaxseed oil. He uses it to seal the floors.”

“So it’s not for pots.”

“No, no. If it works on floors it will work on pots.” He popped the little hat gently down Earl’s face before getting up from his stool. It was a start. No harm in trying on a few of the finished containers he’d made. All stone-wear and waterproof by nature, but they would erode with liquids inside, remnants never really getting cleaned out once the stone developed teeth. The oil was cheaper than glaze, easier to get ahold of as well. He’d have to pick some up come morning, the rest of his afternoon and evening would be spent cleaning up around his worktable and putting final coats of glaze over carefully painted teapots. What one woman needed with twelve teapots he wasn’t sure, but she was a regular customer all the same.

The heat in the shop lasted well past sunset, the kiln finally turning off and being opened to cool overnight. His little troupe were all on his countertop, trying to push a bowl of fruit at him when he finally came inside. “Little ones, I get the hint.” He ate an apple and drank some water under their quiet, watchful gaze. “Now, be good tonight, I don’t want to spend my morning rearranging all my teacups again.” His gaze fell pointedly on Earl and Baron, who insisted that they move the teaware in order to properly duel around it. “I mean it,” he added, pointing a finger at the group and frowning until they all nodded. He bathed, because he knew well enough that he needed it, fell into bed, and work resumed as usual in the early morning. No teacups had been moved, so it was an improvement.


============================================


“Why are you breakin’ stuff now?” The shop was back into sweltering conditions, the kiln working overtime. Earl was perched on the sill of the window above Georgio’s worktable, attempting to keep his little body cool from the heat.

“Checking if your idea worked.”

“The oil thing? I don’t like that stuff. Smells funny.”

“Only until it dries.” Gio wasn’t paying the little creature much mind, too busy carefully cracking a clay vial in half with a chisel and a tiny hammer. The oil took a bit more fiddling to get to dry evenly, but much to his surprise the coating with mostly even when it dried into a smooth layer. Several experiments and more broken vessels later and he’d found a system. Four coats, for safety, sealed perfectly. It took longer, having to manually swirl the vial around until the oil had dried enough to not simply drip down the sides, and then they were all dried hanging upside down. He’d made pages of notes, little diagrams and all the steps drawn or written out to make it easily replicated.

The Scientists probably appreciated well written instructions.

Or at least the clay mason prayed they did. He’d rewritten the damn things twice, each time trying desperately to make his handwriting legible. At least his diagrams were easy enough to make out. All those papers were collected and carefully stacked together and bound. He’d gone a bit of the extra mile on the binding, had to since all his papers had long ago fallen loose out of their previous book bindings. Several favors had been pulled in, from getting the flax-oil in the first place to that little bit of binding into a simple book of notes, customers being very amused with him asking for a favor or service instead of their usual form of payment. “It’s for an important project,” was all he’d say on the matter.

“Well? It work or not?” Earl was leaning over the edge of the sill, holding his little cap to keep it from falling.

“It did indeed. Once the others dry I can send them off. Thank you little Earl.”

“Sure. Does this mean I get a favor?”

“Not even if you asked nicely.” The mason smiled broad and openly at the little scowl he got in return. His original plans had been to simply take all the finished prototypes in himself, to explain them face to face with the same professor who’d requested them. But thanks to sudden orders piling up and an intense fear of making an idiot of himself, he’d simply chosen on the book of notes and diagrams sent in the same box as the pots and vials themselves. He’d made two sets, each having three sizes to reflect the same sizes one could get the glass flasks in and a larger size with about the same volume as a mason jar. The first set was the harder to seal with the oil, narrow necks and spherical bases, bottoms just flat enough to keep them stable on a shelf. The second were stouter, more cylinders that sealed with looser lids. He liked the second lid on a person level, they were easier to hold dry goods and clean with hands like his, dexterous yes, but also large and calloused. A bit of melted wax around the lip kept them airtight. “Do you think they’ll be ok?”

He honestly hadn’t been expecting an answer. “You’ll be fine. If these scientist guys are as important as you seem to be makin’ ‘em out to be, they wouldn’t ask you for somethin’ if they didn’t think you could give ‘em good stuff.” Earl was giving him one of those looks that he’d come to learn as ‘you precious idiot.’ He’d been getting them a lot the past few days.

“Right. Yes. You are right. Thank you Earl.”

“Sure. Can you give me a lift to the kitchen? I have a duel with Baron today.”

“Fighting over Duchess again?”

“Of course not. We have far fairer maidens that we have our sights set on.”

“Of course.” He was just imagining the glance over to his teapot, sitting ever present on his worktop. His teapot was just that. Of course it was. Had to be.

Earl was dropped off on his kitchen counter and Gio went about collecting a box to pack his creations in. It took the rest of the day in the dry heat of his workshop to finish the last of a batch of teacups and for the final coats of oil sealant to dry. It was just a waiting game once the carefully packed crate was sent out. He’d made sure they were padded to keep the whole thing from shattering in transit, not that stoneware was fragile, and set the notebook and a carefully written letter explaining the contents and what the book entailed, the usual thing one does when sending a package. It was just a matter of waiting to hear back, getting feedback on what needed changing, whether or not they were usable, things he’d done dozens of times for more menial tasks. But he couldn’t quell the nervous knots his gut was rolling into.

These weren’t innocent little plans for wedding china. They were important alternatives for the Scientist Guild of all people. How did he keep getting himself into these strange places?

Any musings on the matter were cut short when a small teacup became a casualty of war in his kitchen. “Merde. Earl! Baron! What have I said?” he stalked back inside, ready to give his tiny houseguests a very stern lecture on the concept of not breaking his things. It was probably a futile exercise, but it was a distraction all the same.